


a little something

by captaincastello



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Secret Crush, Sheith Month 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 07:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15165425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincastello/pseuds/captaincastello
Summary: Sheith Month 2018 Day #2: HeadachesThe thing is, hecanafford, his wallet will not suffer from it—but if he allows himself this one, tiny simple thing, he might start allowingmoretiny simple things—it’sjusta few strings, it’sjusta pair of earphones, it’sjusta new satchel, it’sjusta date—and he knows these are luxuries that might lull him to a false sense of relaxation. And that is something he can’t afford, at least not now.





	a little something

**Author's Note:**

> i did this instead of sleep, so i'm leaving this unbeta'd ;;o;;

They’re not exactly what he’d call as beyond his budget—he’s saved enough on tips from his part-time job, and he faithfully sticks to his self-arranged food consumption chart to make sure he has enough money for small luxuries after he has deducted the costs of rent and school expenses—and yet Keith remains rooted to the sidewalk, bathing in the faint light of the shop window instead of stepping into it and making a damn purchase.

Classical guitar strings ranging from nylon fiber to fine bronze shine under the light , all waiting for musically-inclined hands to unpack them, unwind them, and to be strummed or plucked to their full potential. One of these would fit so well with his dad’s old guitar back in his dull apartment room.

It has been three days since his fingers last created music. Three days since a couple of his strings snapped in the middle of song during his routinely Sunday solo street performance. Three days of him stopping by this shop on his way to work just to stare, and eventually leave feeling starved.

Today is no different. With a sigh, he steps out of the pool of yellow light, and moves on, heart left longing for the comfort of song.

The thing is, he _can_ afford, his wallet will not suffer from it—but if he allows himself this one, tiny simple thing, he might start allowing _more_ tiny simple things—it’s _just_ a few strings, it’s _just_ a pair of earphones, it’s _just_ a new satchel, it’s _just_ a date—and he knows these are luxuries that might lull him to a false sense of relaxation. And that is something he can’t afford, at least not now. The only days he’d only really treat himself was on his birthday and on Christmas, and until then, he wasn’t going to give in.

Muscle memory carries his feet to the café he works at—the shrill jingle of the bell overhead pulls him from his reverie and back into the real world.

“Five minutes late _again_ , Number Three—“

He doesn’t hear the rest as he mumbles a tight-lipped apology and ducks into the backroom—not a minute later and he comes out, hoodie off, _Confectionary County_ shirt and black apron on, hair pulled back in a ponytail, his best attempt at a friendly smile plastered on his face.

“He’s not usually this grumpy,” Romelle slides in next to him to wipe on an adjacent table. “His cactus died today. Sandwich toaster incident; don’t ask, he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

Keith stifles a laugh. “Well, he’s the boss. Plus, he should have been angry since yesterday, but he wasn’t.”

All things considered, he thinks he’s really lucky to have landed this job. His coworkers are pretty chill, and he’s allowed to clock out a bit earlier if he needs to prepare for a report the next day. Plus it’s hard to plant a grudge on a boss with a generally positive attitude and whose only trigger is plant death.

“Just avoid saying stuff like ‘root’ or, uh, ‘best friend’ around him, he’s still… vulnerable,” Romelle says in her best _I-am-concerned_ face.

“Copy that,” Keith replies as he tries not to think of his boss taking lazy day selfies with a plant, his tray now full of used plates and coffee cups and utensils.

The hours fly by in a blur of more tray-lifting and walking in circles around the café listening for customer’s various needs. The only highlight so far was a couple going through a break up over two slices of lemon cake (which they’ll probably never have on a good day) and he had to clean up after, but it was pretty much a regular work night.

Over in a corner, a young college professor (or master’s student?) who’s had his fourth cup of coffee is busy preparing for his lectures on his laptop. Sitting by a window facing the street, a man is skyping with his foreign friend and his two dogs. A group of young people sit a couple of tables away, on a group blind date it seems, and one pair seems to have high chances of hooking up: two girls who were meant to be seeing other people in the group. Keith looks away and smiles; he’s been singing songs about people who look at each other the way the two girls do, and he knows with as sort of detached familiarity how this must feel.

Sam Smith’s _Say It First_ bleeds like sunset into the café just as Keith goes and picks up the pitcher of iced water from the counter to refill the college professor’s glass. It’s one of Keith’s favorites off Sam Smith’s album that he doesn’t have to think of the lyrics as they drop like soft rain from his lips.

 

_Come on baby, say it first_

_I need to hear you, say those words_

_If I’m all that you desire_

_I promise there’ll be fire_

He doesn’t really feel the intensity of the stare thrown his way until he notices that the soft tapping of fingers on the keyboard has ceased, and he takes a furtive glance from under his bangs to look at the man he’s serving. Tired yet soft brown eyes catch his gaze and quickly look away, the light of the screen casting an opaque glow on thick-rimmed rectangular glasses. His mouth is set in a thin line, barely moving even as he mutters a word of thanks, hands busy typing away almost instantly. Light stubble does nothing to hide the pink spreading on his face and jaw.

Something starts to flutter in the deep void of Keith's stomach - something that he reflexively pushes back down before it takes full flight.

It’s _just_ a stranger sparing him a glance.

And blushing.

Surprisingly, it takes a little more from Keith to ignore the tingly feeling inside of him.

Without a word, he walks away to assist another customer.

Another hour of routine tasks ensues until it’s finally closing time, and the customers begin to file out into the streets draped in near-midnight. Keith sees the two girls breaking off from their original group, walking closely together in the cold, their elbows touching.

“Hey, Keith, have you checked the tip jar?” Romelle says excitedly, despite the night’s exhaustion manifesting in lines around her eyes. Keith’s usually the one dividing the tips between all six waiters, but he secretly leaves an extra buck or two for Romelle’s share because he knows she’s also saving up for her brother Bandor.

“Not yet, why?” Keith responds as he stacks the chairs into a corner.

“I think you need to see it for yourself,” she says, her smile brighter than the lamps outside.

“Uh, okay,” Keith says, and they both walk over to the counter where the jar sits near the cash register.

The wide cylindrical glass is half full with glinting coins and crumpled bills—but it doesn’t take anyone a second look to see there’s something else completely different occupying the space inside.

“Aw, there seems to be a little something for you, your Thunderstorm Darkness-ship,” Lance chuckles from behind the counter.

Wordlessly, Keith dips his hand in the jar and fishes out the tiny square paper bag. It’s only a little bigger than his palm. Based on the familiar insignia and lettering on the package, he doesn’t even have to shake it to know that it’s a set of—

“—guitar strings,” he mutters. The package feels like it has more than one pack. He flips it over and discovers a neat cream-colored paper rose taped at the back, a tiny message scribbled on its leaf.

 

_For (steamed-bun-like doodle of Keith’s face with a ponytail)_

_Your music helps cure my headaches. Looking forward to every Sunday._

 

“You’ve got a fan,” Romelle half-whispers-screams from beside him. She’s seen and stayed for one or two of his street performances, and is the only coworker who knows of his Sunday night activity.

Keith’s mouth has stopped working. It’s _just_ a note, _just_ a lovely folded rose. Someone _just_ made an effort to maybe make his night. It’s not like he won the lottery, but right now he feels like he’s holding a ticket to space.

“Did you see who dropped it in?” He says once he’s finally found access to verbal speech.

“You know, that busy guy who became like a regular a week ago and always orders the same kind of black coffee every hour so he has an excuse to stay here and see you?” Lance says with a shrug. After seeing Keith and Romelle’s reactions, he adds with a cheeky grin, “Oh, come one, you don’t constantly order shit you can do at home where it’s much more peaceful to do your work.”

“Hard not to miss a tall guy who comes in and looks at a waiter first before the menu,” Pidge chimes in as she stacks paper napkins into a cabinet. “You should try looking at the customers’ faces when you welcome them in, Keith.”

Keith remembers the pair of brown eyes silently watching him pour water into a glass and feels his face heat up. It all feels surreal, this folded rose in his hand, and the thought that came along with it.

That his music is someone’s cure, and it brought this lovely stranger to him.

They’re just tiny simple things; this undying rose in his hand, these guitar strings in the package, the gaze that he caught for a second. And yet the music in his soul has never been louder, brighter than this moment.

The next day, when Keith brings over the regular black coffee to the busy college professor, there’s a tiny folded paper airplane tucked between the cup and saucer. The message scribbled on one wing reads:

 

_Thank you._

_-Keith_

**Author's Note:**

> in my mind this was longer and much angstier, but for now i'll let future me decide to write that version ;;w;;  
> thank you for reading!! <3  
> if you liked it, feel free to check my other Sheith note-exchange [ fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9623663) <3


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